


The Adventure Of The Avenging Angel (1896)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [157]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, vengeance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 08:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11459718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Like all doctors, John Watson's maxim is 'first do no harm' – but does that extend to stopping others from doing harm? That's 'harm' as in 'multiple murder'....





	The Adventure Of The Avenging Angel (1896)

**Author's Note:**

> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the Abergavenny case'.

One of the many observations that my astute readers made when my original stories came out all those years ago was as to the apparent slackening of Sherlock's caseload as the years passed. My readers did not seem to understand that whilst the demand for Sherlock's services remained as strong as it ever had been and if anything actually increased slightly, several factors led to my being able to release fewer cases in those latter years. For one thing, we were both getting older – I marked my forty-fourth birthday this year, whilst most unfairly someone marked only their forty-second. Then again, he did make both days quite memorable....

Ahem!

Another factor in what seemed to my readers as times when (in their opinion) I was being the meanest meanie from Meanie Town and not sharing our adventures with them, was that whilst the cases continued to flow, I naturally only wanted to write up those that were of some interest. Cases that were similar to earlier ones were generally not published, because I did not wish to become what they called 'a stale writer'. And a third factor was that, with our recent travails, Sherlock was becoming more careful about accepting potentially dangerous (and possibly more exciting) cases, and was notably reluctant to take anything that involved a significant element of danger.

Despite all this, I have to accept the fact that I originally published but one case dated to this year of 'Eighty-Six, and that even in that, I masked the perpetrator of the crime. That vile person's actions were to result in my taking Sherlock somewhere for a long period of recovery – but before that, we had two other cases, both of which were so very strange that I initially rejected them for publication. For the first of them, the death of the key protagonist and a letter that they had instructed their lawyer to have forwarded to me decided me that, for this final edition of “Elementary”, I should include the adventure where Sherlock and I knew without doubt that a killer was set to strike for a fifth time – and yet we did nothing. Because when it came to choosing between justice and the law, Sherlock always chose the former.

+~+~+

This case originated in events that occurred just three weeks before Sherlock's return from the dead in 'Ninety-Four. It was one of the few cases to catch my attention in those dark days, because the murderer seemed to have very clearly been one of a small number of people, yet nothing could be proven against any of them.

Mr. William Treforrest, better known by his title of Lord Abergavenny, had been holding his sixtieth birthday party on his small, private island of Skarad off the Pembrokeshire coast. Attending were his wife Queenie, his sons Roger and James, and his sister Hyacinth. There were only three servants with them - I had found that point curious, I might add - but two had taken the boat to the mainland and had been caught there when a storm had blown in, leaving only the valet, MacDonnell. Late that same night the police had been summonsed by means of the telegraph, and on reaching the island once the storm had passed the following morning, had found Lord Abergavenny dead, a dagger protruding from his back. There were, perhaps surprisingly, finger-prints on it, but they did not match those of any of the other people on the island. It was the unspoken opinion of just about everyone that one or more of the four family members had done the dreadful deed, as all were joint beneficiaries under Lord Abergavenny's will, the valet receiving only a nominal sum for his service. But proving anything had been impossible and, predictably, the case had faded from the public consciousness to be replaced by new examples of man's inhumanity to man.

That had remained the case until last week, when Mr. John MacDonnell had been found stabbed to death outside his new master's home in Swansea. And with him, a note with the names of the five suspects on it, with the valet's name crossed out. The implication had been clear; for whatever reason, _someone_ was targeting those at the killing.

+~+~+

Our client in this case was, coincidentally, the new Lord Abergavenny, Mr. Roger Treforrest. He was an unprepossessing man of about forty years of age, with thinning dark hair and a portly figure. Like rather too many of his social standing, he seemed to be of the opinion that because he was a lord, Sherlock would simply have to say yes to him. I fully expected a rapid dismissal, but to my surprise, my friend paused.

“You do understand”, he said, “that in the course of my investigations, all sorts of things may come out. Some may even be to the detriment of my client.”

“What do you mean?” the nobleman asked sharply.

“What happened on Skarad?” Sherlock countered.

There was a short but definite pause before the man answered.

“I have no idea”, he said loftily. “Father went out for a walk – Lord alone knows where; the place was less than a mile across – and when he came back, he went straight into his study. When he did not emerge for dinner, James and I went to fetch him. That was when we found him dead. As I told the police at the time, the French windows were open, but there is no way anyone could have got on or off that island during that storm unless they had grown wings and flown off!”

“Like Icarus”, Sherlock smiled. “And we all know what happened to him! I find this matter quite intriguing, my lord, and I am prepared to accept it as my next case. May I assume that you are staying at Usk House just now?”

Our visitor nodded.

“Although if the newspapers are right, then I shall be headed out of London”, he said firmly. “I am not staying around to get murdered like poor old MacDonnell.”

+~+~+

Sherlock showed our client out, and returned to his chair.

“Doubtless you are surprised at me for taking this case”, he said. 

“I am a little”, I admitted. “He was not the most pleasant of people.”

“When one deals with crime as a career, one must expect that”, he said. “No, it is the fact that of the five people on that island, someone targeted the _valet_. Whether or not it was one of the remaining four, including our client – and it would not be the first time someone had attempted to use my poor talents to divert attention from their own evil deeds – the intention is clearly to instill fear in the others who were there on that fateful day.”

“I would never describe your talents as poor”, I smiled. 

I looked up as I was speaking, then froze. He had that look in those impossibly blue eyes again.

“I have to be at the surgery in forty-five minutes!” I objected.

“Then you had better start divesting yourself of those clothes quickly!” he grinned wolfishly, rising and heading to my room. “I shall be waiting!”

Not for the first time, I did exactly as I was told.

+~+~+

In what little remained of my brain (most of it had long ago departed alongside my dignity and manliness), I could visualize my gravestone. Here lies John Watson; died through too much sex with an angel.

Sherlock began to tickle me under my balls and, incredibly, I began to get hard again, even though I had already come twice. I moaned as my head ached, with every drop of blood in my body being diverted to my lower brain.

“So beautiful”, Sherlock murmured. “Even for someone of your great age!”

I would have glared at him, but I was unable to muster the effort. I settled for another moan.

“I love the noises that I can get out of you like this”, he said. “I love seeing you wrecked afterwards, and having to get through the rest of the day aching all over.”

At least there was that, I thought. I only had to drop some notes off at the surgery, then I had a quiet day's writing ahead of me. Give me a cushion (or two) and I could get through it. I was sure of that. 

Fairly sure.

Then he did that thing where he tweaked one of my nipples without warning. Those terrible jokes they make about 'coming on empty and hurting on full' were, as I yet again found out, all too true. My eyes watered.

“Ah well”, he smiled. “Time to go.”

I managed to regain my vision, and stared at him in confusion. 

“Go.... where?” I spluttered, quite proud that I was coherent enough to manage two whole words.

“We are going to see Lady Hyacinth, our client's aunt and one of those on that ill-fated island”, he said. “We can drop your notes off at the surgery, as it is on our way. But first, we have to call in and check the contents of her late brother's will.”

I gasped in horror. He just smirked.

“She lives up in Hertfordshire”, he said. “A place called Standon. Three cab rides, plus a long railway journey in a bumpy coach. Then the trip back. Are you ready?”

He hated me!

+~+~+

I was not sure which was worse; walking or being jolted in a cab. I was sure that the surgery must have been moved further away from Baker Street without my being informed, and I found the secretary Miss Peabody's knowing look as I handed in my notes and walked carefully back out again damnably annoying! Justified, but still damnably annoying!

When Sherlock had said that we were visiting the lawyer's office, I had assumed somewhere grand that would have befitted so noble a family as the Abergavennys. Instead – and after another ride that had my eyes watering again, damnation! - we drew up outside a small detached house in the Minories. I swatted away some horny bastard's offer of a hand, and managed to walk fairly steadily up the path after him, praying silently that our next cab would have better (or for that matter, any) suspension. 

We were admitted to what was obviously a private residence, and after a short wait - on padded seats, mercifully! -we were ushered into a small study. It was the sort of place that I would have imagined belonged to a philatelist or numismatist, and the man sat at ease at the desk was not exactly lawyerly. He was short, in his sixties and possibly Jewish, I thought. Sherlock bowed.

“Mr. Ross”, he said, his tone almost reverential. The man looked at him curiously.

“You have come about the Abergavenny case”, he said. “I see that it is back in the papers, and I did wonder if it might draw _your_ attention. I presume that you wish to know about the will.”

That surprised me. Wills, after all, always became public documents upon a person's death.

“I am”, Sherlock said.

“You are, as ever, correct to be suspicious”, Mr. Ross said. “The published will stated that the title and half the estate went to Lord Roger Abergavenny, and the remainder was divided equally between his aunt, mother and younger brother. They, however, could only receive the interest on their shares; on;y the prime beneficiary could touch the capital.”

“Did they lie about that?” I asked, surprised. The man shook his head.

“Not as such”, he said. “There was a second will, amending the first. A tontine.”

“Oh”, Sherlock said. 

There was an ominous tone in that small word. Sherlock thought for a moment, then spoke.

“Why was this not known when the first will was published?” he asked.

“ _That_ I do not know”, Mr. Ross said, “but I have a suspicion. I think that you would do well to approach Mr. Truman, the butler. He knew about the existence of the second will but, acting on instructions from his late master, he waited two weeks before speaking, by which time the original will had of course been published. I presume that the newspaper may have issued a subsequent correction, but I doubt that many people read it.”

“Lord Abergavenny trusted his butler rather than his valet?” I asked, surprised. Mr. Ross nodded.

“I was surprised at that too”, he said. “I wish you well in your endeavours, gentlemen.”

Sherlock bowed, placed an envelope (which I assumed contained some notes) on a side-table, and I followed him out. Though not before I caught Mr. Ross smiling slightly at my wincing. Was nothing sacred?

“Not really”, muttered some annoying person who was not getting laid (or doing any laying) any time soon.

+~+~+

Bishopsgate. Bethnal Green Junction. Globe Road Halt. Cambridge Heath. London Fields. Hackney Downs. Rectory Road Halt. Stoke Newington. Stamford Hill. Seven Sisters. Bruce Grove. White Hart Lane. Silver Street. Lower Edmonton (High Level). Southbury. Forty Hill Halt. Turkey Street. Theobalds Grove. Cheshunt. Broxbourne. Rye House. 

Those are the twenty-one stations between Liverpool Street and St. Margaret's Junction, where we had to change for the Buntingford branch train and three more stops (Mardock, Widford and Hadham) before we finally reached Standon. And at stop after stop, my poor abused backside got jolted even in the first class-compartment which, praise be, we had obtained. As for the preceding carriage ride to the Great Eastern Railway's London terminus, that had been torture, not helped by Sherlock teasing me all the way. Sometimes I did not know why I put up with him. At least he had not made me wear the plug...

Too late I remembered his freaky mind-reading abilities. The smirk was absolutely terrifying!

As it turned out however, we were destined not to reach our destination. We had to change trains at St. Margaret's and at a kiosk there I purchased a newspaper, which I was perusing as the Buntingford train was coming in. I did not get further than the second item of news which made me gasp in shock.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“It seems that we are too late”, I said. “Lady Hyacinth Abergavenny was found stabbed at her home, Standon Manor, early this morning. Police suspect an intruder, as a door to her private suite had been forced from the outside.” I paused before reading on, “this is the second recent death relating to the murder of Lord William Abergavenny some two years ago, his valet having been slain only the other week.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Three people left, including our client”, he said. “We must find and warn them.”

For once he was wrong. There were not three people left. There was just one.

+~+~+

It had been a local newspaper that I had picked up on the station platform, although I fully expected Lady Hyacinth's death to be on the front page of the evening edition of the “Times”. It was – but unfortunately, it had competition.

“The quality of the Thunderer is declining”, Sherlock sniffed as he perused the headline 'And Then There Was One!'. Early that morning someone had stabbed Lord James Abergavenny in the street outside his Mayfair club, and then presumably crossed quickly to Usk House where they had similarly dispatched Lady Queenie into the next world. Only by good fortune had our client Lord Roger been absent, having gone to visit a friend's house.

“Good fortune, or design?” I wondered. “And you still have not told me what a tontine is?”

He smiled at me.

“Would you like me to explain whilst we are horizontal?” he growled.

“Back off!” I not-whined. “I need some recovery time here! I just endured endless cab and train rides, and I cannot sit down without wincing. Have pity on the poor invalid!”

“I suppose that you older men need your recovery time”, said some cruel and horrible soon to be ex-friend of mine. “Very well. A tontine is a legal device, which can be written into a will, or added as a codicil. What it meant in this case was that, excluding the valet, the four people on that island when Lord William died each inherited the stated parts of the estate that they expected – but with a catch. As Mr. Ross said, they would only be allowed access to the interest, not the capital - except for the principal beneficiary. As each one died off, their share would be divided in proportion amongst the other beneficiaries, so the last survivor would get everything, and be able to access the capital if they so wished.”

My eyes widened.

“So it would have been in Lord Roger's interests to kill off the other three, at least”, I said. “But why kill the valet?”

“Possibly the valet knew something”, Sherlock said. He opened an envelope that had been lying on the table when we entered. “Hopefully this is our information on the other two staff, who were stranded on the mainland during the murder.”

“What can they tell us?” I wondered.

“Possibly nothing”, Sherlock said, “but we have precious little to go on as it is. Let us see.”

He read the letter quickly.

“The maid, Georgina Ockham. Twenty-eight at the time, and Lady Queenie's personal maid. That is odd.”

“What is?” I asked, wincing as a sudden movement had brought on a sharp pain in my nether regions. And I was sure that I caught the beginnings of a smirk from someone not far off.

“Why would Lady Queenie not keep her maid after the killing?” he wondered. “Unfortunately the girl has since obtained work with a family who have decamped to India, so we shall not be able to ask her anything, unless we do so by telegraph. And then the butler, Mr. Raguel Truman. He organized everything for the weekend that his master was to stay on the island.”

“An unusual name”, I said. “Is it an angel one, like your middle one?”

He nodded.

“The angel of vengeance”, he said. “As with the maid, I would have expected him to have remained on the island once he was there. As you yourself said, the fact that they only took three servants down with them for a long weekend was itself suspicious. Still, I suppose that if one is planning a murder – and it would have been easy enough for one of the four to make a last-minute change in the arrangements - then one does not want any more people around than is absolutely necessary. I note that Mr. Truman is a native of the Scottish island of Coll, in Argyllshire. The late Lord William owned a large estate there – impressive, given the island is less than thirty square miles in size – and Mr. Truman worked there before becoming his butler.”

“Where is he now?” I asked, as Sherlock opened a telegram.

“He is Lord Roger's butler now”, he said, reading his message. “And headed home, by all accounts. Our client has decided that a remote Scottish island is the safest place that he could be right now, and with his butler has decamped there via the offices of the Midland Railway Company. Possibly a wise move.”

+~+~+

Sherlock, bless him, was gentle with me that evening, and we spent some time just holding each other and discussing the case.

“What puzzles me”, he said at one point, “is the delay. Either Lord Roger is guilty, in which case proving it will be all but impossible, or he is the next and final victim - yet who would have a motive to dispatch him?”

“Did the butler get anything in the will?” I asked sleepily.

“Only the same sort of nominal amount as the other staff, dependent on his years of service which in his case were not that many”, Sherlock said. “And the next in line to inherit after Lord Roger is his second cousin once removed, a Mr. Peters, who has just emigrated to Australia, Not only that, but they left two weeks ago and _before_ the first death. When I checked, I found that he was still on board his ship at the time.”

“Maybe Mr. Truman is the real Raguel, the avenging angel bringing down justice on Lord William's killer”, I yawned. “Shining the light of truth into darkness. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

I slept in his arms, unaware of the strange smile on his handsome face.

+~+~+

“I am expecting a visitor today.”

Five days had passed, and Sherlock had seemingly done nothing in the case. Still, at least Lord Roger had reached his island haven and was still alive, from the telegram that he had sent us. And the local constable there was monitoring the few who came to the island by ferry each day. On such a small island, strangers would surely stand out quite easily.

“Who is it?” I asked, forking over half my bacon as per usual. He gave me that gummy smile that I loved so much.

“A man who has killed four people already, and is about to commit murder for the fifth time”, he said calmly. I stared at him in astonishment.

“Who?” I asked.

“He should just be arriving at St. Pancras Station about now”, he said, evading my question. “That means that he will be here in about half an hour, maybe three-quarters if the London traffic is worse than usual. Salt?”

I glared at him. He was being mean!

+~+~+

Sherlock must have alerted Mrs. Singer as to our client's arrival, because usually she knew not to let people ascend at this time of a morning, since 'someone' was not a morning person. It was some forty minutes before we heard the tread of a man outside, and the door opened to reveal a smartly-dressed gentleman of about thirty-five years of age. 

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Truman”, Sherlock said politely. “Please take a seat. We shall not detain you for long, and I understand that you.... have a lot to do.”

This must be the butler, I thought. But what had Sherlock meant by that remark?

“I know about the light-house keeper”, Sherlock said, to my further mystification. “I only lack one piece of the puzzle, which I would ask you to provide. Why the two year delay?”

The butler looked at him warily, but answered.

“Old Davy died not long after the storm”, he said, his Scots accent very broad. “He did not tell his son about the letter, and David only found it a few weeks back. He came all the way to London to bring it to me in person.”

“What is going on?” I asked. Sherlock turned to me.

“I will explain”, he said, “although I warn you, John, this case will tax even your forbearance when we reach an outcome where the gap between justice and the law will yawn wider than it has ever done before. It all begins with a nobleman who, whilst on his island estate with four of his family and his valet, somehow learns that the five of them are conspiring to murder him and share out his wealth.”

“They all thought he was safely away in his study”, the butler said. “He had left his fountain-pen in his room and returned to get it, so overheard them discussing the plot in his wife's room next door.” 

“He knows that he is doomed, for if he challenges them it is one against five”, Sherlock continued. “He knows also why you and the maid have been sent to the mainland; with the storm coming in, he is cut off from any help. It was assumed that the six of them were the only people on that island – but a remark from the doctor the other day showed me that there was at least a seventh person there.”

“It did?” I asked, bewildered. He nodded.

“'Shining a light'”, he reminded me. “The position of the island off a dangerous headland meant that there would most likely have been a light-house somewhere in the area, and sure enough, it was on the island. Lord William goes out for a short walk, visits the light-house, and explains to the keeper what is afoot. He writes a letter affirming the guilt of the people back at the house, then returns to meet his doom.”

I stared at him, shocked.

“The untimely death of the keeper hinders it”, Sherlock said, “but justice is only delayed, not denied. When you receive the letter, sir, you know that your master was murdered by the four people who now share his wealth, and I have no doubt that the valet was suitably rewarded for his connivance in the business. You strike down four of them, leaving the one man that you are in service with, as you know that he is an easy mark.”

“He asked me to come and see you today”, the butler smiled, and I felt a chill run down my spine. “To reassure you that he was well.”

“But he is doomed, is he not?” Sherlock asked bluntly. The butler nodded.

“A mysterious stranger will be seen in one of the bays”, he said, “and my lord will meet the same end as his fellow villains. A life for a life.”

“Five lives for a life, in this instance”, Sherlock said dryly. “Mr. Truman, I have come across many killers in my time, and I think this is the first time that I have encountered one that I can truly empathize with.”

They both turned to look at me. I did not fidget. Much.

“What?” I asked.

“If we allow this man to walk out of that door”, Sherlock said calmly, “he will return to Coll and murder his master.” He turned back to the butler. “What are your plans thereafter?”

“Coll is my home”, the butler said. “I would stay there. The allowance that Lord William left me generates an income that is more than sufficient for my few needs.”

He stood up, and I realized the import of what Sherlock had said. This man would leave Baker Street and commit murder, if we did not stop him. The murder of a man who had committed patricide.

We let him go.

+~+~+

A few days later, I was not surprised to read in the "Times" that Lord Roger Abergavenny had been stabbed to death on a remote Scottish island. Police were looking for a man of foreign appearance who had been sighted by the dead man's butler, having landed a small craft in a bay on the west coast of the island.

“I doubt that they will find this 'mystery man'”, I said. I felt strange about the case; not happy that I had allowed the act, but resigned that there had been no other choice.

“Boats can disappear”, Sherlock smiled.

+~+~+

By a strange coincidence, his words were to prove prescient for our next case.


End file.
